Blue Paint
by vicissitudes
Summary: “He remembered a time when he had been so small—he had taken a paintbrush and ran it across watercolor paper because normal paper had hated him and he had hated normal paper.” Uchiha Sasuke, and growing up. [Sasuke & Sakura. Gen.]


**Blue Paint**  
_vicissitudes_  
June 22, 2007.

* * *

_As I pick up the pieces  
Of the china pot you  
Left for me,  
I can't help but wonder  
If this is the only thing I have  
Left of you._

* * *

He remembered, vaguely, a time when he had been so small (he is so big, now)—he had taken a paintbrush and ran it across a sheet of watercolor paper, because normal paper had hated him and he had hated normal paper. Simple as that. He had wanted to go to the ocean. The paint was blue. He was drawing water, and now, when he looks at it, the yellow was the sand. It had mixed in with the blue. His family was in the corner. His father had broom-hair and it was four shades too light. His mother's apron was too fuchsia. His brother's hair was too long. 

He had wanted to go to the ocean. The blue, blue ocean with treasures all around.

His mother had said yes; his father looked slightly reluctant and disgruntled but nevertheless replied in a tepid tone that sent chills and shivers of surprise and excitement up his spine in a simple "Yes." His brother smiled coldly and returned to his ANBU studies—how to properly interrogate someone; how to properly speak to feudal lords; how to ignore the seductive qualities of a woman. How to properly kill someone.

The next day, he had went to the Academy announcing in a very childish and spoiled tone that he was going to go on a picnic with his family to the ocean. He was looking directly into the shy pink-haired girl's eyes and she blushed furiously and looked away. The blonde boy with the blue eyes sniffed impatiently and had said that the ocean was no fun. He had pointed out that the blonde-haired boy had never _been_ to an ocean and shouldn't be talking. The boy from the Inuzuka clan and that yappy puppy snorted and grinned to himself. The blonde boy snarled angrily and cut class. Iruka-sensei was not pleased.

That was the day when a part of his heart withered away and part of him died away—pieces shattering and scattering away in the Uchiha district. He can't find them anymore, no matter how find he tries to find them. _They're gone_, the cynical side of him says; _You _can_ find them_, another side of him says. It's crazy; it's insanity. He had become so very quiet—his mouth is quiet but his head is so noisy. Sometimes he can't concentrate when they are talking. When they are jabbering away, in his head, the world becomes very loud. Very loud.

Five years later, and normal paper still hates him and he still hates normal paper. Except now, he hates more of everything and loves less of everything. Five years later, and his heart grows bigger—but every smile is a distraction. Every wave of the hand, every stupid "thank you" he hears and hates, every "You're late _again_, Kakashi" he says, every milkman and mailman that come around his apartment is a distraction. A distraction from the path he has painstakingly laid out for himself: he is going to go and train to get better and cut off his bonds and kill his brother. That was his goal. That was his dream.

And then he got better at ignoring those distractions, and then worse and worse at ignoring those distractions. Every wave of the hand—he responded with one wave to call his own. Every stupid "thank you" he heard—he said "You're welcome." Every "You're late _again_, Kakashi"—he would smirk; every milkman and mailman that came around to his apartment—he said, "Thank you." They wove at him. He wove back. It was almost heartbreaking to see himself doing this. It hurt his heart. It would probably hurt his brother's heart, too.

If his brother actually had a heart.

Naruto became more of a brother than his real brother was; he scolded the blonde for goofing off like a brother should. He scolded himself for not being able to catch up to him anymore. He scolded Kakashi along with Naruto and Sakura. He scolded Sakura when she threw her kunai wrong. He felt like a young mother, tsking at everything but so loved. So warm, with a roof above his head and a mock-family around him. It was wrong, in the end, but it was right for now. Everything was alright, just for now.

Sakura grew up, a little. After the Chuunin Exams, she had grown up. A girl of thirteen—awkward in all the wrong ways and she was not familiar to him anymore. What had happened to the girl who had clung to him as if her life would end if she didn't? She used to have a crush on him. She used to have such a hopeless, requited crush that it hurt whatever was left of his heart. _Why doesn't she ignore me and go train to get stronger?_ he used to ask himself. But she has changed like the rest of them—his heart was bigger. He started to laugh and smile more. Naruto, now, was still loud as always, but he's wiser now.

Now, Sakura _loved_ him. He can't remember what it felt like to be loved anymore. Warm? Protected? Loved until you are sick of the love? He wracked his brain. He wracked his head. He can't remember more than the word "love" is connected to "family" which was connected to his mother. His mother had loved him. His father was tepid. His brother… If his brother had not existed and Sakura had still loved him, he could do something about that unrequited love. Really.

But he was born on a Thursday, and so he was fated and bound and chained to his wanderings and hopelessness until he broke or died. Or ran away. It really didn't matter. Why is the rest of his team growing up so fast? He still feels like he is seven—a useless boy, a waste of space. Naruto had seemed like a worthless idiot a day ago. Sakura was still the bothersome fangirl a day ago, and he is still the boy full of tiny little tragedies inside his heart. An idiot. Worse than that blonde idiot. He really is more useless than he remembered. When he was seven and still so small, he dreamed of being strong. He really isn't, is he?

He would leave that night. He really is still so weak.

Sakura is there, but Naruto is not. Why does she want to hinder him so? If he was angry, then he did not show it. It doesn't make any sense at all. She says "I love you"—she says "I want to help you." Why is he not sick at love anymore? There are four idiots waiting for him. There was Kakashi who tied him to a tree to make him listen. There was Naruto who wanted to eat ramen with him. There is Sakura, right in front of him, crying, saying that she loves him. She loves him with all his heart.

He says "Thank you" on reflex, because he simply does. She was saying things, and he was watching her, only because he was waiting. He is sorry. He is guilty, sort of. He wants to take her and Naruto and Kakashi to the ocean and he wants to draw a picture of them with paint on normal, regular paper because maybe he wants to forgive paper and paper wants to forgive him. He wants to take the brush from when he was younger and dip it into a shade of brilliant blue and drag it slowly across so it is perfect. He wants to make Naruto's hair a shocking yellow; he wants to make Kakashi's book two shades too dark and his hair two shades too light. He wants to make Sakura's hair long again and he wants to paint her nails bright green like her eyes.

But in Otogakure, they only had blue paint. Blue paint—the blue that he hates—and blue paint. He makes Naruto's hair blue and his jumpsuit blue. He makes Kakashi's book blue and his hair blue. He makes Sakura's hair blue and her fingernails blue. It's horrible.

When Orochimaru comes in and asks, "What are you doing?" he replies tepidly, "Forgetting."

He throws the painting away because normal paper still hates him and he still hates normal paper.


End file.
